


The Adventure of the Ugly Jumper

by agirlsname



Series: Contacts [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, ContactJHW, ContactSH, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, John's Jumpers, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sherlock's Voice, Twitterlock, Wall Sex, twitterverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 07:22:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13970133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlsname/pseuds/agirlsname
Summary: I've found that telling him to take the offending item off in a certain voice has him doing it almost immediately.Inspired by an anecdote from the Contact accounts on Twitter.





	The Adventure of the Ugly Jumper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ContactSH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ContactSH/gifts).



> This is another story inspired by the Contacts, a pair of role play accounts on Twitter. It's set in the same universe as _We could_ , but otherwise has nothing to do with that story, and they can be read as complete standalones. Regarding timeline, _We could_ is set in May 2017 and _Ugly Jumper_ in December the same year.
> 
> The plot premise and some lines come directly from tweets by John and Sherlock (the smut is all me, though). Thank you, boys, for once again being inspiring!
> 
> Thanks also to [englandwouldfalljohn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn) for the feedback, MJ for the peanut butter cup experiment proposal, and Akhenaten's Mummy for beta-ing a piece of porn you definitely did not sign up for.
> 
> You don't have to be a fan of the Contacts, or know anything about them, to enjoy this story!
> 
> (Hello, Mum. You don't have to read this one.)

The Ugly Jumper made its entrance during Sherlock's time away. He cannot be sure of the exact date of the purchase, but it must have been sometime in the autumn of 2012, probably November. That is what he hopes, at least; that the darkness and general desolation of the season clouded John's judgement enough to let him think this was a good idea.

At any rate, Sherlock came back from the dead only to find John confined inside a dark brown, rib-stitched monstrosity. The colour makes his hair look hueless. The fit hides all the nice properties of his shoulders and chest. It doesn't even look soft to the touch – not that this was of immediate concern to Sherlock at the time. Still.

For a long time, Sherlock was not qualified to give John input on his choice of clothing. Normally, he would of course have done it anyway, but the halting friendship between them was so fragile that Sherlock didn't want to risk it. He could not be sure that such an innocent comment wouldn't be what made the house of cards that was his, John's and Mary's association scatter around him. And so he had to endure a whole year of seeing John wearing the jumper, looking like some sort of clueless grandfather who did not belong to Sherlock any more.

When John had finally come back home, and life had slowly settled into something familiarly domestic with easy fits of laughter wedged into it, Sherlock had deemed it safe to bring up the issue.

“John, I think it's time we got rid of Ugly Jumper. Don't you agree?”

John had looked at him, not sure if he should be offended or amused; he had, after all, used that same sentence with Rosie that morning, trying to convince her to let go of a pair of ragged, disgusting and too-small slippers.

He settled on offended. “What jumper?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The one you're wearing. Ugly Jumper. Do keep up.”

John glanced down at his chest, then turned away to clear a heap of blocks off the floor. “It's not ugly”, he said calmly.

Sherlock tipped his head and narrowed his eyes. “Not Conventionally Attractive Jumper”, he allowed.

“It's just a basic jumper!”

“Well the brown is hideous and the way it hangs off your-”

“Sherlock, let it go.” His voice was exasperated, but his amusement was also audible. “Not my fault you're too posh to like it.”

“You don't have to be 'posh' to have taste”, Sherlock sniffed.

John straightened, squared his shoulders and looked Sherlock calmly in the eye, just a hint of defiance, or even challenge, in his demeanour. “The jumper stays.”

Annoyingly, Sherlock's brain always starts to work sluggishly when John does the Captain Watson thing, and he was too slow to come up with a response. The jumper stayed.

He tried a few more times, but soon realised he had to change tactics. At the time, he was not sure which approach to choose, but estimated that whatever he settled on, it would be easier to orchestrate if John had forgotten the whole issue. And so, he waited.

The waiting paid off more than he would ever have anticipated. John ended up kissing Sherlock, Sherlock ended up in John's bed, and Ugly Jumper ended up on the floor. Repeatedly. Sherlock always smirks at the abandoned piece of clothing the day after, taking great pleasure in how it lies there to attract dust on the floor.

It wasn't long before Sherlock deduced the effect his voice has on John. Pitching it low, smoothing the words out while leaving the slightest bit of gravel in the vibrations, will make John momentarily lose track of what he is currently doing. Sherlock had great fun with this in the early months, experimenting to see how he could affect John like this in various situations. Using it at home, Sherlock almost always ends up with his shirt torn off him and John's tongue in his throat. Using it publicly, he has the great pleasure of seeing John's movements glitch before he clears his throat, moving his head as if to shake it off, and throwing Sherlock a glance while licking his lips.

Sherlock had determined that the success rate of affecting John using only his voice was as high as ninety-six percent. And that was when the strategy dawned on him, although it started out as an honest attempt at seduction – an impulse, really. John was standing at the sink with his back to the kitchen, dressed in Ugly Jumper. Sherlock sneaked up on him, stopping a few inches behind him where he hovered for a bit. “John”, he said, letting his voice drop.

John froze in the middle of what he was doing, lifting his head to stare at the cupboards.

“Take off your clothes”, Sherlock purred.

John didn't waste his time for longer than letting out a heavy breath, before he hastily removed Ugly Jumper and tossed it towards a chair, only for it to slide off to the floor where it belongs.

Thirty minutes later, Sherlock was watching his own flushed cheeks in the bathroom mirror, covering his deliciously spent groin area in a pair of clean boxers, and reflecting upon the great success of the whole episode. From that day on, Sherlock has been engaging in a constant war against Ugly Jumper using Sexy Voice as his main weapon. John, ruled by his penis as soon as the velvety baritone makes an entrance, takes off the offending item almost immediately every time.

The result is always immensely pleasing, as sexual encounters with John Watson tend to be.

Of course, Sherlock strikes from several angles. With John's clothes moved into Sherlock's wardrobe, it's child's play to arrange them in a way that benefits Sherlock, with the nicest clothes on top. And from time to time, he hides the jumper in unlikely places. So when John comes home from work on a dull Monday in December, Sherlock is surprised to see Ugly Jumper smugly concealing John's attractive torso; last time he saw it, it was stuffed inside his violin case keeping company with a few plastic toys (carefully planted there so he could blame it on Rosie, should the arrangement be revealed. Which is what seems to have happened).

John smiles at him and walks over for a quick kiss before putting the kettle on. Sherlock studies him from his kitchen chair with narrowed eyes. The jumper is aesthetically unpleasant in the extreme; it makes his very eyes stiffen in his skull. John is in a fairly good mood, silently humming while he prepares the tea.

“Fancy a cuppa?” he asks pleasantly. When Sherlock only glares, John chuckles. “Bored, are you?” Sherlock grunts disdainfully. John makes him a cuppa anyway, leaves it on the table and brings his own to the sofa, where he settles with a book.

Sherlock gives him a few minutes until the stress is drained out of John's shoulders, before he rises from his chair. He discreetly unties his dressing gown, letting it fall open around the soft pyjamas in which he has spent the day.

John looks up when Sherlock is in the middle of the living room. Sherlock holds his gaze meaningfully for a few seconds (three, to be exact) before he speaks, his voice rich and the tiniest bit ragged:

“Take off the jumper.”

John's pupils widen and the corner of his mouth slowly pulls up. His gaze rakes over Sherlock's body for a moment before he puts the book upside-down on the coffee table, grabs the collar behind his neck and pulls the jumper over his head. He comes out of it with his hair adorably disarrayed and his eyes gleaming.

Sherlock gives him an appreciative look for a few moments (that light blue shirt is not bad at all, bringing out his eyes in a lovely manner, especially now that he looks joyful – ah, _this_ is his John), before he turns and walks out of the room.

Balance is restored. The universe has righted itself. Ugly Jumper is a heap on the sofa. Wonderful.

He is in the doorway when he hears John's half-strangled “Hey!”, and he smiles to himself. He walks down the hallway, mind wandering to the experiment with peanut butter cups he needs to make an outline for. But just before he reaches their bedroom, John is behind him, grabbing his waist and slamming him face-first against the wall.

Sherlock hears himself groan loudly at the impact, forgetting to feel any pain when an electric current of excitement blazes through him, ending up between his legs and lingering there. His head falls back, his arms fruitlessly come up to brace himself too late. John's hands grip Sherlock's wrists to pin them beside his head, his body pressing him tight up against the wall.

“Are you trying to play me?” John growls, dragging his open mouth across the skin of Sherlock's neck. His hot exhalations send another spark straight to Sherlock's groin.

“I just- I just wanted you to take off that jumper. It's uh-” Sherlock stutters when John rises on his toes to lick at the skin beneath his ear, John's bulging crotch nudging against Sherlock's bottom. “It's ugly.”

“It's not ugly”, John says, sucking Sherlock's earlobe into his mouth. Sherlock's eyes flutter closed and he shivers at the hint of teeth before John lets it slip back out. “Did you really think I would fall for that?”

Sherlock lets out a breathy laugh. “It works every time. You take off Ugly Jumper whenever I want you to.”

“No I don't”, John says, his voice sounding deep and intimate near Sherlock's ear. John strokes his hands up Sherlock's arms and into his hair, scraping his nails against Sherlock's scalp. It was a delight for them both when they discovered how sensitive Sherlock's scalp is; massaging it never fails to make his legs melt beneath him. He hums low in his throat, and at that, John presses himself closer to Sherlock's back, proving the point Sherlock is trying to make.

“John, you do.” He stubbornly tries to speak through the foggy bliss of John's hands in his hair. “You always take it off when I- use the- the voice.”

Being trapped like this should not be so stupidly arousing. The unforgiving wall is cold against his chest and abdomen, and he can feel his penis swelling against the hard surface. John keeps mouthing at his neck, sending shudders down Sherlock's back, and Sherlock swallows when John's hands glide downwards.

“Well I won't any more”, John says, the humid air from his mouth brushing across Sherlock's skin. Sherlock's closed eyelids flicker.

“No, you won't, won't-” Sherlock tries to get a hold of his line of thought while John's hands keep travelling down, down down. “'S a shame. Suppose I'll have to start-”, he slurs and tries again, “-have to start actually conducting the fire experiments… that you always… hmm… claim that I'm doing on your jumpers…”

“Shut up, Sherlock”, John says, making the fricative consonants harsh. His hands stop to grip Sherlock's hipbones, dragging him back against him.

“Mm- make me…” Sherlock hums, but that mission is already accomplished. John's hands slip under the waistband of his cotton trousers, splaying on the front of his lean thighs.

John's reaction to Sherlock's lack of underwear is as predictable as it is immediate. “Oh fuck”, he groans and rubs his crotch against the back of Sherlock's leg. Sherlock laughs again, his voice throaty from his neck bending as far back as it goes. His mouth is wide open and the sound transforms into a moan as John's hands move inwards.

Sherlock's fingers curl, his nails digging into the wallpaper when John's left hand wraps around him, the right hand travelling down to his testicles. Sherlock tries to discreetly hold his breath, deciding to stay silent this time. It was not _he_ who asked for this; it was John coming after him. He will not beg today. And this time, he means it.

John's hands are warm, and dry from being washed repeatedly during his hours at the clinic. His hold is delicate in contrast to his vicious mouth on Sherlock's neckline. At first, he simply holds him in his hand, squeezing lightly now and again, humming into his skin. John loves this, Sherlock knows; feeling Sherlock grow fully hard in his grip. It happens fast; Sherlock's sensitive foreskin and his corpora cavernosa are in a riot, the blood pumping hard into his penis, even at such a simple, still touch. It makes no sense, really. Only John can do it.

Sherlock is getting hotter, the vague smell of his own sweat increasing. He didn't bother showering this morning, but it doesn't seem to matter; John nudges the hem of his dressing gown down to nuzzle at the skin over his thoracic spine, inhaling deeply and humming contentedly.

When Sherlock is stiff and aching and fighting to keep back impatient sounds (already, damn it), John's hand starts to slowly move. He increases the pressure with every downstroke, and Sherlock's voice follows his next exhalation by accident. John rises up on his toes again, his body sliding deliciously against Sherlock's, putting his lips to his ear.

“Kiss me”, he whispers.

Sherlock twists his neck to meet John's mouth. The kiss is clumsy at best – but it's John's mouth and it's wet and hot and breathy, and Sherlock curls his hand around the back of John's head, trying to keep him in place. John moans quietly into the kiss, curling his body protectively around Sherlock. His right hand slips behind his scrotum, caressing the crease of Sherlock's arse. Sherlock immediately presses backwards, trying to find the hard bulge of John's trousers with his bottom, moaning impatiently when the height difference makes it difficult.

The twist of his neck is starting to hurt and he loses contact with John's mouth, blinking his eyes open, trying to look over his shoulder. John's right hand slips out of Sherlock's trousers and Sherlock whines in protest, kicking himself for breaking his private silence rule. Then he smiles to the ceiling, when John dips his hand into the pocket of Sherlock's dressing gown.

“Oh, you're a genius”, John rasps when he finds the bottle of lube. He pushes Sherlock even harder against the wall with his torso, as if Sherlock might try to escape when he isn't held in place by two hands. Sherlock has no plans on leaving, his one plan is to try to position John's erection against his bum. John is not being very helpful at the moment, only increasing the pressure on his back as Sherlock wriggles. Sherlock struggles to inhale properly when his chest is squashed between John's warm weight and the wall, constricting his lungs.

He hears John flick the cap open with one hand. John swears when he tries to get the lube to coat his fingers rather than his shirt, his left hand stilling frustratingly around Sherlock's shaft. Sherlock tries not to sob.

“I'm here, love”, John murmurs with his nose pressing into Sherlock's trapezius. When John's slick fingers finally return down his pants, Sherlock's head falls forward, his forehead thudding against the wall. John kisses the protruding vertebra at the base of Sherlock's neck and smears some lube over his glans. He resumes his left hand's movements over the shaft before slipping his other hand back down to rub at Sherlock's perineum. The delicate skin comes to life under John's wet fingertips, and Sherlock sighs in relief at the familiar touch. It's as though everything clicks into place every time John has him in his hands, and Sherlock is at the same time calm with love and delirious with desire.

As John's fingers elicit sparkles across his most intimate area, Sherlock melts into John's frame. Despite the height difference, it feels as though John is surrounding him. The embrace is getting warmer, and John's scent is filling the air, bringing associations of safety and love. John's torso and arms are at the same time soft and firm, gentle and fierce, as everything with John is. John hums again, mouthing at his neck as if it's the best thing he has ever tasted.

Sherlock unconsciously spreads his legs a bit to give John better access, grunting in dissatisfaction when it still isn't enough for John's trapped erection to press against his bottom. He reaches back with his other hand, wriggles in between their bodies to efficiently undo John's belt. It is an art he has perfected. Like picking a lock, really.

John whimpers into his neck when Sherlock digs into his pants, finding them already wet with pre-ejaculate. He pulls out John's cock and collects his dressing gown in his other hand, getting the fabric out of the way while he spreads his legs further. He sighs loudly in relief and closes his eyes when John finally finds his arse, where he immediately starts to rut against the soft cotton.

Sherlock's fist closes tightly around the silk when John's right hand slips even further back between his buttocks, nearing his anal opening, his other hand still stroking him steadily. The cotton of Sherlock's trousers makes for a maddening barrier between them, and he clamps his mouth shut not to start begging for more. When John's finger rubs against his anal sphincter, Sherlock's head rolls helplessly against the wall, his fringe getting trapped against his damp forehead and getting all messed up.

He opens his mouth, willing himself not to beg, at first not getting out more than an “aaaaaaah”. “John”, he tries again, and it sounds far too much like a plea. He blinks his eyes open, trying to gain some presence of mind, but his vision is unfocused from his eyelids being pressed hard together. The mundane pattern of green stripes on the wallpaper before him almost surprises him with its ordinariness, as if he somehow expected to open his eyes and find himself in another dimension.

But this is what it is like with John Watson. He occupies the everyday rooms of 221B, wearing his ugly jumpers and stereotypically drinking an excessive amount of tea. And right in the middle of it all, he carries his military ways, his spark of life, his limitless affection. He sits at the desk with a heap of boring documents and yells at Sherlock for not helping him with some dull business, and he fucks Sherlock over that same desk, documents and all. Sherlock never knows when the unfashionable green stripes on the hallway wall will bear witness to his own inarticulate pleasure. Everything is familiar and mundane and predictable, and simultaneously everything is exhilarating, adventurous and… _lovely_.

John's pelvis rolls firmly against him. “What do you want, love?” he asks, his voice unsteady.

“Oh, would you please just fuck me against the wall already?” Sherlock snaps.

John groans, squeezing Sherlock's shaft hard before withdrawing. Sherlock divests himself of his dressing gown, letting the thin silk flutter to his feet around him. He barely has the time to slide his trousers down past his bum before John's hand is back on his hip, pulling him backwards. Sherlock steps back from the wall, leaning his forearms against it to brace himself, and hangs his head between his arms with a moan when John's fingers are back over his opening, slippery with new lube. He rakes up the hem of Sherlock's shirt to kiss his back while he teases the entrance.

When his first finger slips inside, Sherlock is yet again astonished by the pleasure of it. How is it that he can never get enough of this? How is it that he _forgets_ every time how glorious the friction against his anal sphincter is? No matter how many times he files it away in his mind palace, reality always startles him with its pure intensity. He pushes himself back onto John's hand, wanting more, _needing_ more, needing to be outstretched and pierced. John moves his finger calmly in and out a few times, before curling it forward to graze his prostate.

A wave of pleasure surges through Sherlock, making him momentarily lose control of sound and movement. There is a weak keening in his throat while his back arches, his mouth gaping with his lips trembling around sounds that won't break free. John moans with his mouth still pressed against Sherlock's back, his free hand clawing lightly over his skin.Sherlock squirms, and when John withdraws and pushes back in with a more insistent nudge against his prostate, Sherlock's hips jerk involuntarily, angling his bottom up and pushing back.

John keeps massaging his prostate while his right hand strokes Sherlock's hip and buttock with a gentle touch. And the contrast between that gentleness and the intrusion of the second finger inside of Sherlock's rectum, does strange things to Sherlock's solar plexus. It aches and flutters, while his erection throbs violently and his rectum stings, and it all makes him unable to breathe.

At the third finger, the stream of pleas that Sherlock has been keeping in breaks lose. “Please, please, please please ple-”

There is a barely audible “oh” behind him, the fingers quickly disappear and the head of John's penis pierces his body. Sherlock's words cut off in a hushed scream. The air changes; the fluttering desperation stills, concentrates and sharpens into something grave and consuming, the room shrinking and leaving only the connection of their bodies and the air in their lungs. John exhales loudly when he sinks in deep, his hands holding Sherlock's hips in place. Sherlock's fingers dig into his own elbows, and he uses his forearms against the wall as leverage to push himself backwards onto John's cock, gasping when he brushes past his prostate.

“Sherlock”, John breathes, wiggling his pelvis a bit to let Sherlock feel him and get used to his presence.

“Mmm”, Sherlock answers brokenly, sucking his lips into his mouth and biting down onto them.

“Okay?”

“Yes, do it”, he barks. He barely has time to finish the sentence before John pulls back and snaps back into place, making Sherlock cry out in aroused surprise at John's roughness.

“When you beg me to fuck you against the wall…” John says with another sharp thrust, pushing another cry out of Sherlock's chest. Sherlock lets go of his elbows, instead placing his palms flat against the wall to counterweight the force of John's movements.

“More?” John asks, his voice calm and dangerous.

“More”, Sherlock whines, and when did the sexy voice roles get reversed? He tries to deepen his tone next time John thrusts into him, but it turns high-pitched at the end, when John is as deep in as he goes. Sherlock wants him to stay there forever at the same time as he desperately needs him to move. He can never get those two desires to unify. It is endlessly frustrating in the most wonderfully unbearable way.

He squirms in John's grasp, but John stays in place for a few moments more, waiting for Sherlock to whimper before snapping out and in again. He puts up a grimly slow rhythm at first, keeping his thrusts hard and precise. The angle is _perfect_ with John standing behind him, brushing Sherlock's prostate every time he bucks his hips. Sherlock feels his eyes rolling back into his head, and he tries to stay silent, but John punches the air out of him every time. Before long, he gives up. He pants in sync with John's rhythm, moaning on every exhalation.

John's breathing is ragged, his fingers clenching and unclenching on Sherlock's hips. He moves his hands to Sherlock's buttocks, spreading them apart, burying himself deeper. Sherlock tries to help by spreading his legs and arcing his back, and he struggles to push his arse back without John holding it in place.

“John”, Sherlock moans.

“Yes?” John breathes.

Sherlock growls before he gives in: “Faster. Please.”

John groans and increases his speed at last, the slap of skin against skin sounding loud in their private bubble. As soon as he gives in, the rhythm builds quickly, and Sherlock lets out a long moan, hitching with every thrust. His prostate is glowing, radiating pleasure through his groin. John pounds into him and Sherlock fights not to get slammed back into the wall, his arms trembling, his muscles weak with pleasure. His right hand drops to his throbbing erection, smearing the lube and pre-ejaculate over it, and he gasps at the sensation. The hot, wet skin is strained, he is so far gone that every touch feels incredible, and every punch into him makes the pleasure swell impossibly.

John's relentless movements become erratic and he starts moaning, his hands sliding forward to dig his fingers into the ridges of Sherlock's prominent hipbones. “Sher- Sher-”, he gasps, and Sherlock pumps his fist furiously, his hearing going dim as the volume of his own cries rises. He climaxes with John still pounding into him, somehow managing to remember to catch the semen in his fist before getting consumed by the surging pleasure.

He is just becoming vaguely aware of reality again when John cries out hoarsely. Sherlock's legs are shaking violently when John buries himself deep during his ejaculation. The moans that are still quietly escaping Sherlock's throat turn into a breathy laugh when John clings to his hips and tries to remain standing.

Sherlock rests his forehead against his arm on the wall and lets his breathing slow down. Eventually John slips out of him, and Sherlock bends down to pull up his trousers, his movements liquid with endorphins and oxytocin. He unceremoniously wipes his hand on the fabric of his pyjamas; he will need to wash them anyway, he can already feel semen trickling out of his rectum. He looks up and finds John watching him with a soft gleam in his eyes. He puts a palm against Sherlock's chest and gently backs him until his back touches the wall, rises up on his toes and gives Sherlock a tender kiss.

When Sherlock starts smiling into it, John pulls back and opens his eyes. They look at each other for a moment, saying the things of importance without words.

Then John turns away and picks up the bottle of lube from the floor. “You know”, he says evenly, “people on Twitter tell me my jumpers are iconic.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, carefully picking up his dressing gown with his clean hand. “Well they haven't _seen_ Ugly Jumper, have they.”

John straightens and shakes his head at him. “I can't believe you were going to walk away. Sherlock Holmes walking away from a sexual opportunity, that's a first.”

Sherlock grins. “I knew you would pursue me.”

John looks at him and fails to suppress a fond smile. “Come into the shower with me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> You can find the original thread [here](https://twitter.com/contactJHW/status/953281588799909889).  
> Don't know the Contacts yet? Go say hi to Sherlock: [@ContactSH](https://twitter.com/ContactSH) and John: [@contactJHW](https://twitter.com/contactJHW).  
> Don't know _me_ yet? Say hi [here](https://twitter.com/agirlsname_) on Twitter!


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